


Salida

by thegreatpumpkin



Series: Tango Apasionado [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU of the Whiskey/Secrets AU, Alternate Universe - 1920s, It's becoming an AU-ception, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3768334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Salida: The opening figure of a tango, the first foray onto the floor. (Same-sex elven tango in the Prohibition era. What more is there to say?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salida

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Leave Your Secrets and Kiss the Whiskey from My Lips](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3377786) by [victoriousscarf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/victoriousscarf/pseuds/victoriousscarf). 



> So, uh. This is not actually IN the Secrets/Whiskey 'verse, because the Gondolindhrim have not yet appeared there (although I can't wait until they do). These are not victoriousscarf's versions of any of the characters. But as I was reading, I just kept thinking about playing up the musical aspect of Gondolin in the Jazz Age...which led to visions of Ecthelion with a silver trumpet, and from there, a house band made up of the 12 houses of Gondolin (or well, 10 of the 12, because Turgon owns the joint and this is presumably pre-Maeglin).
> 
> If you haven't read Leave Your Secrets and Kiss the Whiskey from My Lips, you really should do that first. (Both because it's relevant, and because it's fantastic.) This fic assumes the background of everything up to chapter 7.

From the outside, Hotel Gondolin was a decaying (and apparently abandoned) theatre, squeezed between the shoulders of two much taller buildings, once grand but now mostly forgotten in their shadow.

From the _inside_ , it was a marvel of white marble and sparkling fairy lights (the marble was original, though the lights were new); a party that never ended (although it was required to clear the ballroom and lobby at four a.m.); and if the liquor quality left something to be desired, well, at least it flowed freely. The Hidden City Orchestra was the real reason people came, anyway. They played dinner dances every night but Sunday and Monday, and did sets from dusk till dawn on the weekend.

Which was why Sunday night had become their own version of Saturday night; also why, despite being several hours off shift, half of them were currently lounging about on the shady front steps looking wrecked and passing around a flask of something questionable. Music was a cruel mistress.

Glorfindel was down to his shirtsleeves, stretched out long across a step, his folded jacket and Ecthelion's trumpet case serving as a makeshift pillow. Salgant was droning on about—oh, honestly, who knew or cared?—his latest composition, probably. At least until Ecthelion capped the flask and chucked it at him, at which point he shut up and tipped back the remainder of its contents.

“Anyone going out tonight?” Rog asked, like he always did. “See, there’s this real sweet piece I’d like to get cozy with, but she won’t come along unless there’s someone for her friend…”

“What I can’t figure,” said Ecthelion, whose overpolished spectator shoes were currently on the step level with Glorfindel’s face, “is how you can stand the music. Or dance to it, for that matter. I’ve seen the shitholes you go to, not one of them has a half-decent band.”

“Who cares about that? It’s not a night at the symphony. It’s just an excuse to get cheek-to-cheek.”

Ecthelion rolled his eyes. “Cheek-to-cheek, maybe. You’re not going to get cheek-to-anything-else when the drummer can’t keep time and you keep treading on her feet, that’s for certain.”

“No one’s good enough for our Ecthelion except us.” Salgant said wryly, already taking his violin out (really, he’d find any excuse). “His delicate sense of rhythm has doomed him never to dance again. Here, just for you—” he smirked and started into a tango, _Si Supieras_. “Can you dance to that, Fontaine?”

Glorfindel sat up with a grin, extending a hand to Ecthelion, who eyed it unamused. “Stop that. This isn’t the old country.”

“Dance transcends borders,” Glorfindel told him cheerfully.

“Men don’t dance like that here,” he said more quietly, in the disapproving tone he used when Glorfindel was about to do something dangerous and needed to be pulled back before he got himself in trouble. Generally, Glorfindel listened; but it was a sunny Sunday afternoon among friends, and he was irrepressible.

“A stroll around the neighborhood on any temperate evening would indicate otherwise.” He gave his winningest smile and grabbed Ecthelion by the arm, hauling him to his feet as Salgant laughed and played on. “Come on, I know you know how. Or don’t you? Is that the problem?”

“Better than you, you Vanyarin peacock,” Ecthelion said, leaping down from the steps. As always, Glorfindel could get at him through his pride. He had a right to it, though—he was all precision where Glorfindel was all flash. They linked up and started simple, a few steps to get a feel for the other’s style; but Glorfindel was a showoff by nature, and when he started into variations, Ecthelion matched him.

"That's the spirit. You'll ask me to play at your wedding, right?" Salgant could never resist a cheap shot.

"Your E string is flat," Ecthelion returned, spinning Glorfindel with seeming unconcern.

"So's your old man."

Rog watched them with interest. “Didn’t know you were any good. Now you’ve _got_ to come out tonight. At least one of you—or both? She might have another friend. I’ll buy a round.”

"You can't afford to buy a round anywhere that's worth going." Ecthelion scoffed.

Salgant stopped playing, bored now with his joke. "I'll come."

Deprived of music, Glorfindel would have gone on dancing regardless; but Ecthelion, suddenly self-conscious, dropped his hands and stepped back, returning to his spot on the steps. "I'm staying home," said Glorfindel, tucking his own hands in his pockets and leaning against the low wall flanking the stairs. "The Ainulindalë Hour's on WVLR tonight, and someone in my block will almost definitely put it on with the windows open. My upstairs neighbor's got a source for Khazâd coffin varnish and he's usually willing to share. All the fun, none of the expense."

"All the kitsch, none of the class. You can't take a girl to a block party on the wrong side of the tracks."

Glorfindel clucked his tongue. "You can if you don't keep chasing girls who are out of your league. Thel? The music, at least, will be up to your standards."

"I need new friends," Ecthelion sighed. "All right, if only to see the spectacle that will be you trying to handle Khazâd hooch."

Glorfindel winked. "That'll be worth the price of admission," he agreed. "And now, if you fine gentlemen will excuse me, I'm going home to catch a cat nap before the sun gets too low." He retrieved his jacket and threw it over his shoulder, strolling on homewards through the early afternoon sunlight, singing idly as he went.

" _Si supieras que aún dentro de mi alma, conservo aquel cariño que tuve para ti..._ "

~ ♫ ~

The sun hadn't quite set when Glorfindel woke, but it was invisible behind the buildings, and the little courtyard formed by the shape of his building and the next one along was filled with blue shadow. It was also filled with neighbors, their amiable chatter drifting up to his open window.

Ecthelion turned up while he was oiling back his hair, rifling through the icebox and coming up with the makings of passable sandwiches. They each ate one in companionable quiet, leaning shoulder-to-shoulder on the windowsill and watching the people below. Someone had, indeed, put on the radio, though it was only chatter at the moment.

A pretty young nurse passed beneath the window—on her way inside to change out of uniform, presumably—and Ecthelion gave a low whistle of appreciation, though they were too far up for her to hear it. Glorfindel bumped him with his shoulder. "What happened to that blonde you were seeing in the spring? Meleth? You don't bring her around anymore."

Ecthelion hissed softly through his teeth. "She wanted to settle down and start a family. Not on a musician's wages, either."

“Hmm.” Glorfindel made a neutral sound. “Sorry.” He wasn’t really, though it sounded sincere enough. He’d been afraid for a little while that they were going to get serious, and then he’d been afraid for a little while of what that fear meant about him. But whether it was today or years from now, Ecthelion _would_ find a girl eventually; Glorfindel figured he might as well get the practice keeping his jealousy in check now.

Ecthelion half-shrugged. “It was fun while it lasted, but that’s the extent. She was a good dancer.”

Glorfindel’s mouth quirked; he couldn’t help thinking of the afternoon. “Well, those are thick on the ground, at least.”

Ecthelion smiled, clearly thinking of it too. “Looking to put in an application? The job requirements are a _bit_ more extensive than that, I’ll warn you.” He was more willing to joke when it was just the two of them. He knew—or thought he knew—that Glorfindel wouldn’t take it the wrong way.

“Hmm,” Glorfindel said again, and stepped away from the window. “We should go down, if you want to start looking for candidates. Otherwise all the good dancers will be full up on partners.”

Ecthelion followed him, all unawares.

~ ♫ ~

By the time the streetlights flicked on, Rog and Salgant had turned up muttering about fickle womenfolk—apparently their intended dates had found better pickings somewhere else. They didn’t mutter for long; the pretty nurse from earlier took a shine to Rog, and her sister was coaxed into a few turns with Salgant.

The Ainulindalë Hour had ended, but careful tuning by the radio’s owner had picked up some other music broadcast; even Ecthelion didn’t complain. The neighbor with the Khazâd hooch had never turned up, but someone had brought down a gallon of lemonade and chipped off some ice into the pitcher. Glorfindel did as much chatting with the neighbors as dancing, or possibly more. When he did dance, he asked the young ladies who seemed short on partners, though he wasn’t sure it was really a kindness given he wasn’t in the market.

Eventually, people began drifting away to bed, ready to start the work week again. The courtyard cleared; at last there were only the four of them and a few other tenants who didn’t have steady work, or worked odd jobs or odd hours (the radio owner apparently among them).The radio was signing off for the night— _But first, one last dance for all you night owls out there…_

It was a tango, though not _Si Supieras_. Rog took a pull on his cigarette and leaned against the building, grinning at Glorfindel. “Aww, they’re playing your song.”

“ _Really?_ Are you _deaf?_ ” Ecthelion grumbled in playful disgust. “Trust a drummer not to know one tango from another.”

“What’s that? I couldn’t hear you,” Rog returned, without missing a beat.

Salgant joined in. “Anyway, if you’ve heard one, you’ve heard them all. One-two-three-four-five, bada da dum dum...promenade a few times and call it a dance.”

“Listen, you philistine—” While Ecthelion held forth on their bandmates’ many musical failings, Glorfindel scanned the courtyard thoughtfully. This neighborhood was one of the places that Noldorians, Sindarians, and Teleri lived shoulder-to-shoulder (and intermingled a bit more freely than elsewhere in the city), but the few still lingering were all Noldorian.

“Settle down, boys.” Glorfindel interrupted Ecthelion’s cheerful tirade with an elbow to the ribs. “Want to show them how it’s done? Nobody here to catch you being too much of a Noldo.”

Ecthelion glanced over his shoulder, then shrugged. “Might as well, not that these two yokels can half appreciate it. At least _someone_ here has some musical sense.”

“Yes, please, distract him. My fragile ego can only take so much damage,” Rog said, looking not the least bit damaged.

Glorfindel laughed and tugged Ecthelion out into the courtyard. The song was half-over already, but they fell into it with ease; this one was sweeter and less staccato than _Si Supieras_ , the dance necessarily more fluid.

“That wasn’t the issue, you know,” said Ecthelion, without context.

“Hm?”

“Being too much of a Noldo.” Glorfindel knew that, of course. But there were some things he was careful of speaking aloud—knowing what bothered Ecthelion and confronting it head-on were two different things. He made a noncommittal noise; it seemed to be enough for Ecthelion, who relaxed, his hold on Glorfindel shifting from formal and tense to friendly affection.

It was easier like that. They moved together with the comfort of old friends, taking turns to lead and follow, stepping lightly over the broken flagstones of the courtyard. No one was paying them any mind, Rog and Salgant included—half the time they were in shadow anyway. So they danced for the simple joy of it, drawing in closer against the dark.

Men did not tango cheek-to-cheek, but they were very near it when the song ended. Glorfindel smiled, resisted the urge to turn his head, and made to step away. Ecthelion caught his wrist.

He paused, attending, but Ecthelion didn’t say anything. It was too dark to read his expression. Glorfindel almost asked what he wanted, but in a moment he was glad to have waited when Ecthelion turned his head and kissed him.

However confused he might be about Ecthelion’s motivations, he was not at all confused about his own. He kissed back without hesitation, and _oh_ , it was sweet. Ecthelion drew back after a moment, and he thought that would be the end of it, but then Ecthelion seized his chin and kissed him again.

It couldn’t last, of course. The second time they parted, Glorfindel made the mistake of glancing—only briefly, only for the merest _second_ —over Ecthelion’s shoulder to where Rog and Salgant stood smoking. It was enough to remind Ecthelion that they were not alone, and he drew back as if burned. He shook his head once, a terse dismissal of the entire interaction; then he turned and strode away into the darkness.

Rog and Salgant were watching intently, like two cats on a fence. He and Ecthelion may have stood in shadow, but their silhouettes would have been enough to tell the story.

Reluctantly, Glorfindel crossed to them.

Salgant had a nasty light in his eyes. He opened his mouth as Glorfindel approached, but Glorfindel spoke first.

“Salgant. You know I can pick the lock to get on the roof at Gondolin?” His voice was even, calm; he might have been giving directions to Woolworth’s. “Think of what a fall from that height would do to a person. Really think about it, because if you say a single word, I _will_ throw you from it.”

“He’s not kidding,” Rog observed, after a brief silence. He passed Glorfindel a cigarette, and Salgant kept his mouth shut.

~ ♫ ~

By Tuesday, Glorfindel had seen neither hide nor hair of Ecthelion, though that wasn't entirely unexpected. He turned up to Gondolin early in hopes of a quiet word, but Ecthelion had clearly broken his usual routine. The green room was mostly empty, entirely devoid of trumpet and trumpeter.

Egalmoth—the pianist—was there already, hastily reattaching a shirt button. He looked up when Glorfindel came in, and to Glorfindel's surprise, pushed out the chair beside him for Glorfindel to sit. They had always got on well enough, but they weren't exactly close, so this seemed suspicious.

Not to mention—Egalmoth was a loud, brash, flamboyant, _colorful_ person (both in wardrobe and personality). His silent invitation and neutral expression made it even _more_ suspicious.

"Salgant's been telling tales, I think," Glorfindel said, without sitting down.

Egalmoth raised his eyebrows. "Salgant? No. Rog thought you might...want to chat."

He relaxed somewhat at that, and deigned to sit, though it made him laugh. He supposed Egalmoth was the obvious choice—his preferences were the worst-kept secret in town. "I'm sure it was kindly meant, but no, _I'm_ not the one who needs a chat. Or, well—not that kind, and not with you, no offense intended."

"Ah. None given." Egalmoth jabbed himself with the needle, swore, sucked on the tip of his thumb. "Explains why you're here already. He hasn't—?"

"Not a word."

A sympathetic noise, then— “You want to go out later? I know some much more likely places to look." Egalmoth finished with the button, casting about for something to cut the sloppily-tied thread. Glorfindel handed him a pocket knife and shook his head.

"I wasn't looking."

"Might do you good to look, then." Egalmoth winked. "It always does me."

Glorfindel rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. "I'm not dying. I get on just fine, thank you, and I'll keep doing so, just as soon as I tell Fontaine not to start things if he can't follow through."

Egalmoth laughed and shrugged into his repaired shirt, but the rest of the band was starting to trickle in now, so he let the subject drop. Glorfindel withdrew to a convenient corner, occupying himself as he could; tying his tie, neatening his hair, reviewing the setlist though he could have sung through it in his sleep. Ecthelion—who was _never late_ , and frequently the first one to arrive—breezed in five minutes before showtime.

It wasn't just Glorfindel who noticed, but Ecthelion shrugged and made some sort of excuse. If nothing else, his poker face was impressive.

~ ♫ ~

Glorfindel was the sort of good-natured person everyone got along with, which meant he was _completely_ unused to being avoided. He didn't appreciate it one bit. Even less did he appreciate when Ecthelion disappeared the moment their last set was over.

Or when he did the exact same thing on Wednesday, and Thursday.

Or when, for every break between sets on Friday and Saturday night, when Glorfindel might otherwise have caught him alone, he was deep in conversation with Turgon, the owner of the joint. Or—worse—flirting with Turgon's daughter and her coterie.

Glorfindel had a patient temperament, but being ignored was a frustration he couldn't bear for long.

On Sunday, his patience ran out.

He'd never been to Ecthelion's place, though that did not seem strange to him—he got the impression Ecthelion wasn't there much himself except to sleep. (Ecthelion, of course, was frequently at Glorfindel's—he'd even crashed in the chair a few times when Glorfindel overdid it and needed to be poured into bed. Ecthelion never needed to be helped home—he'd get loose, but never truly sozzled. For the first time Glorfindel wondered whether that owed to more than just his sober temperament.)

It wasn't hard to get the address. He simply told Turgon Ecthelion had left his music, waving a sheet of his own. Armed with that knowledge and an irritated determination to resolve this before the weekend was out, he went home to bed.

When he woke in the early evening, it was to the sound of the neighbor's radio through the open window. Glorfindel stretched and dressed, thinking of nothing much—he would figure out what to say when he got there. It didn't need to be poetry. All he wanted to get across was: _stop avoiding me and let's go back to how things were_.

Ecthelion was not at home, but a surly neighbor who was passing by confirmed he had the right door. In this part of town, a ladies' hairpin was sufficient to let oneself in, though Glorfindel politely waited until the hallway was clear to do so. He left the door unlatched to announce his presence—he wouldn't want to _startle_ Ecthelion—and settled in to wait.

The place seemed nicer than he would have expected, but perhaps that was only it was so unlived-in. It was no bigger than Glorfindel's, certainly. But the sofa and mismatched chair looked new, or at least very gently secondhand. The rug was unworn, and a curtain that was actually black—not grey with dust or repeated washing—blocked off what was presumably the sleeping area. Glorfindel took a seat on the sofa, in the square of streetlamp light that slanted in from the window.

Ecthelion was back before long. He moved light and quiet, easing open the unlatched door, edging inside until his eyes adjusted; when he saw Glorfindel, he let out a long breath, snapping the door shut and sagging back against it. " _Jesus_ , Goldenflower. I thought I was about to get stabbed over two dollars and some groceries." He shifted the bag on his shoulder—probably the groceries—and set it down, though he did not move away from the door. "The fuck do you want?"

"That's a hell of a question, coming from you," Glorfindel said, but his tone was gentle.

"I didn't _break into your place_ to k—" Ecthelion stopped short of the end of the sentence, caught out. Somehow, though, it broke a little of the tension. He sighed and came closer, reaching up to pull the light cord, then sat down in the chair, leaning forward till his elbows rested on his knees and his chin was propped on his fists. "I'm not—I can't—"

Glorfindel shrugged impatiently. "So don't. You want to forget it? It's forgotten. Can we just go back to talking about Salgant's terrible taste in music and Rog's terrible taste in women like we normally do?"

Ecthelion was clearly startled. "But you—"

"—would have said that a week ago, if you gave me the chance. Stop avoiding me, it makes Gondolin boring and I can't afford to look for another gig."

Ecthelion sat up, indignant. "You kissed me back!"

Glorfindel was incredulous. "You want an apology for _that_? I think you’re over-reaching a bit there!"

"No, of course not. I meant—I thought you—" Something flickered in Ecthelion’s expression, just for a moment, but it was hard to be sure of. “You’re really going to just forget about it?”

Glorfindel’s first instinct was to say _yes, of course, if you’ll stop tiptoeing so loudly around it._ But there was more to the question than that and he knew it. After a moment he settled on, “If you want me to forget it, I will.”

Ecthelion didn’t answer right away. “But you _did_ kiss me back.”

“I did,” Glorfindel agreed, because he seemed to need the affirmation. “You going somewhere with that?”

“Where am I _supposed_ to go with it?” Ecthelion snapped, mystifying Glorfindel until he elaborated. “I can’t very well—people will say we’re queer, you know.”

Glorfindel couldn’t help it. He started to laugh. Ecthelion was not amused, but he couldn’t contain himself. At last, he put his face in his hands, still grinning behind them.

“I think that horse is out of the barn and on to the next county by now. You kissed me in front of our friends—and my neighbors, for that matter, not that I think they were looking.” He sat up again, quirking an eyebrow. “And, Ecthelion, I _am_ queer. I thought you knew, or suspected, at least.”

Ecthelion shook his head, frowning as if he meant to argue. “You aren’t, though. I mean, you’re not like—oh, Egalmoth, or—the crowd he runs with.”

“What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?” Glorfindel folded his arms, impatient again. “It isn’t all fairies, not that there’s anything wrong with Egalmoth _or_ his crowd.”

“I didn’t mean that there was,” Ecthelion said more quietly, chastened. “I just—I didn’t know. I guess I thought...never mind. You really don’t mind what people say about you?”

“Well. You’ve got to be careful, of course, in some circles.” Glorfindel half-shrugged. “But then again, we’re employed by an establishment that stays afloat by illegal liquor sales. It’s not like I spend my nights awake worrying about being arrested.”

“You spend your nights awake serenading drunks,” Ecthelion countered, and Glorfindel thought with some relief that his posture was less defensive than before.

“It’s a figure of speech. I mean, no, I don’t mind, as long as they don’t say it too loudly.”

Ecthelion let out a deep sigh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees again. “I mind, though. I can’t be that way.”

“No one’s asking you to,” Glorfindel pointed out.

Ecthelion gave him a long, unreadable look. “No,” he said finally, “I guess they aren’t.”

Glorfindel threw a sofa cushion at him. "You want me to ask just so you can tell me no? You're lucky I like you, you ass." After a beat, he added, "There's a happy medium, you know. You _can_ kiss me without spending your nights off at The Black Rabbit."

 _That_ was the right answer, it seemed. It sparked a slight smile; then Ecthelion, all unexpected, said, "What, only kiss you? Surely this counts as the second date."

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Glorfindel told him, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Not when you're still sitting all the way over there like a boy working up the nerve to put his arm around a girl in church." He shifted position, swinging one leg up onto the seat beside him, bending the knee and curling an arm around it.

Ecthelion took that as the invitation it was, moving to the sofa and settling in the space between his knees. He leaned into Glorfindel, kissing him slow and sweet at first, then a little more forcefully—Glorfindel recalled with a sudden flash of heat the way Ecthelion had seized his chin in the courtyard. _So that’s how it is_ , he thought giddily, as Ecthelion put hands on either side of his head and pressed him bodily into the sofa back.

Someone’s radio was playing on the other side of the wall; a tango, because it was always a tango.

 _Oh, yes_ , thought Glorfindel; _we can definitely move to this._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure I've messed up some historical stuff, so mea culpa. I googled just about every word/phrase/idiom I used here but I'm sure I forgot something obvious! Some notes on the stuff I hopefully didn't mess up:
> 
>  _Si Supieras_ : Imagine a tango. Changes are, the music you're picturing is this song! It's properly known as La Cumparsita, but for most of the 20s it was known as Si Supieras for the lyrics added by Pascual Contursi in 1924. [Here's a version on youtube](https://youtu.be/JlV5Fd9hX4o)\--the very recognizable part starts around 0:30.
> 
>  _Saturday night/Sunday night_ : In the 20s, the five-day work week wasn't really a thing yet, though some companies were beginning to make Saturday a half-day. In short, the band's Sunday night feels like a modern American's Friday night.
> 
>  _Men don’t dance like that here_ : Supposedly, around the turn of the century, men in Buenos Aires would dance the Argentine tango with one another to hone their skills while waiting for their turn at the brothels (due to a shortage of women, brothels often had long wait times). This may be apocryphal (the sources I've found seem a little weak on evidence), but it's a good story. Add that to the post floating around tumblr about Noldor tango and...it just made sense to me that straight men dancing together in this way would be a cultural tradition that the Noldorians brought with them to America (though Ecthelion, obviously, is feeling the pressure to assimilate lest he be read as homosexual by non-Noldorians).
> 
>  _It was a tango, though not Si Supieras_ : I’m imagining something similar to the song in [this video](https://youtu.be/xvV_botDNWQ), though that’s actually an arrangement of _Por Una Cabeza_ , a Carlos Gardel tango from 1935. Likewise, Glorfindel and Ecthelion’s dance would be along the lines of the one in the video--much softer and more fluid than modern tango. (More Prohibition-era tango videos: [1925](https://youtu.be/PLW5L4K12OU), [1931](https://youtu.be/0MvzO_u6Yzw) )

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Salida](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5300081) by [pumpkinpodfic (thegreatpumpkin)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/pumpkinpodfic)




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